


All We've Left Unsaid

by Lunasong365, sous_le_saule



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:30:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7012534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunasong365/pseuds/Lunasong365, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/pseuds/sous_le_saule
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things are more comfortable when they’re left unsaid. But strangely, sometimes, they don’t want to remain hidden.</p><p>The first part imagines an incident that happens before the Antichrist’s birth, the second one is a reinterpretation of canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Tout ce qu'on ne dit pas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6176503) by [sous_le_saule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sous_le_saule/pseuds/sous_le_saule). 



> Translation by lunasong365. I want to thank her for her time, her kindness, her patience (I'm hopeless in English) and, above all, for her amazing job. As usual, she found the right - and beautiful - words...
> 
> Of course, characters, plot of the second part and quotes belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.
> 
> Translator's note: It was my pleasure to collaborate with sous-le-saule on the translation. This is very much in her words, as we worked hard (and well) together to capture the intent of her original piece. XO, Luna

Crowley awoke with a start. He’d fallen asleep during an episode of “The Prisoner,” which continued to flicker on the television in front of him.[1] Peering into the darkness of his apartment, it took a moment to realize what had woken him from his slumber. He eventually identified the sensation, both familiar and disturbing, that was hammering his temples: something demonic was happening. Not in the immediate vicinity, but close enough for his acute sense of territory to convince him to get up and put on his coat.

He muttered under his breath as he walked toward the Bentley. "They _could_ notify me when they send someone on a mission to _my_ jurisdiction. A little respect, yeah? And anyway, why didn’t they give this mission to _me_?" He really hated the times his radio or television broadcast was interrupted to transmit orders from Hell (when would they finally trust _his_ creativity, dammit?) But, hey, a demon has his pride. He relaxed, thinking it was maybe just one or two young demons sent to showcase their ability through some rite of passage: burst water pipes, disappearance of express parcels and urgent mails, simultaneous nightmares to wake children up screaming all over the city[2]. He still wanted to get to the bottom of it.

With his vehicle carelessly stopped in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, Crowley leaned recklessly out the window as he attempted to locate the origin of the evil feeling. Soho. _Shit._

At this late hour of the night, it was easier than usual to cross London at 160 km / hour. Crowley discreetly parked the Bentley halfway up the sidewalk a few doors down from Aziraphale’s bookstore. The front door had been forced open and was slightly ajar. Ohs _hitohshitohshit._

And like an idiot, Crowley had not brought the holy water stored in his safe.

 

~*~*@*~*~

 

Aziraphale fell heavily to the ground, breathless, muffling the cry of pain caused by the deep lacerations his opponent’s claws had just inflicted on his arm and his side. He threw a desperate look towards the dagger he had dropped, now several meters away from him. Things were not looking good. The demon who faced him displayed his considerable teeth in a predatory smile. Taking great care to avoid the weapon that had reduced his two associates to an unrecognizable mess of flesh, his opponent strengthened the grip on his own rune-carved blade and approached the angel. Aziraphale struggled to get up.

The demon suddenly hesitated, and Aziraphale understood why when he himself perceived a second demonic presence. He immediately recognized the familiar aura of Crowley, which boiled with intense feelings. Rage. Fear ... _Love?_

“Back off, asshole. Nobody touches _my_ angel.”

The first demon, twice as big as Crowley, turned to keep his two opponents in his field of view. He relaxed slightly when he saw that the newcomer was not armed.

“And how do you think you’ll stop me?” he asked Crowley with a sarcastic smile. “I have not been ordered to kill _you_ but, please, give me a good reason to do it.”

“Other than spouting clichés, what the hell are you doing here?” said Crowley in an allegedly confident tone (fooling nobody). 

“Believe it or not, the Big Guy is not too satisfied with your results lately. It seems that you’ve been hanging around with a certain angel too much and that has softened you. But you know how it is; nobody likes to waste time holding job interviews and training a new field agent. So I'm here to eliminate your distraction.”

“Uh ... what if I voluntarily promise to work overtime?”

“That’s _already_ going to happen, smartass. Now, get lost and let me have some fun. Leave me to finish this and nothing more will happen to you than the doubling of your quotas.” 

Crowley had used this pleasant little chat[3] as an opportunity to search the back room for a potential weapon. Two blades similar to the one held by his opponent were buried to the hilt in the mutilated bodies of their former owners, but they were out of reach. Crowley's gaze lingered on the dagger adorned with angelic ciphers ( _since_ _when and where has Aziraphale been hiding_ that _?_ ) lying between him and his adversary.

They both knew: no demon could touch such a weapon without being disintegrated; just like the assassins’ blades were designed to annihilate angelic creatures. Game over: do not pass go, do not receive a new body. The demon looked down on Crowley with amusement, as if challenging him to seize the dagger. Then, seemingly dismissing him as inconsequential, he again began to move towards Aziraphale.

The latter had made use of this brief respite to recover and gather what little strength he had left. Disarmed, Aziraphale had no choice but to attempt to ward off his enemy, but he had already tried this option before the fight started and had failed, as if he’d been blocked by a barrier. Maybe the odds were better now that he’d gotten rid of the other two? Anyway, it wasn’t like he had another alternative. He hoped that Crowley would take advantage of the interruption to escape without doing something stupid.[4]

“Return to Hell, Demon!” chanted Aziraphale in a muffled voice, using an ancient incantation while suddenly projecting his angelic aura toward his opponent. The demon staggered and gasped, but did not disappear.

“Too weak!” chuckled the creature, raising his blade to deliver the final blow.

With nobody paying attention to him, Crowley ended his internal debate[5] and rushed toward the weapon dropped by Aziraphale. The angel saw him from the corner of his eye and couldn’t restrain his shout:

“Crowley!”

The assassin turned, but before he could comprehend what had happened, his flesh began to crack and collapse upon itself, leaving behind only a small reddish and steaming pile. Crowley released an incredulous cry of victory, before remembering what he was holding and throwing the dagger far from himself with a frightened yelp[6]. Stunned, he contemplated his untouched palm. 

 

 ~*~*@*~*~

 

A groan from Aziraphale restored Crowley’s priorities. He knelt beside the wounded angel, whose side and arm, both deeply lacerated, were bleeding profusely.

“It will be ok, angel, it will be ok…”

“I know it will,” replied Aziraphale calmly with a faint smile. “Could you stop panicking for two seconds and get me a clean towel? I have to stop the bleeding until I regain enough strength to heal myself.”

Crowley disappeared in the kitchenette, muttering that he was not panicking, and returned with clean towels with which he compressed the angel’s injuries. The demon had also brought a bottle of gin, from which he took a swig before giving it, without a word, to Aziraphale, who did the same.

“Thank you, Crowley.”

“ 'Told myself you would need a drink.”

“I meant: thank you for ...”

“Don’t mention it.” Embarrassed, Crowley abruptly cut him off.

“It _was_ particularly stupid, you know.”

“You moved _particularly_ fast from gratitude to criticism, I think,” Crowley pointed out with an offended snort.

“You could have been disintegrated. You _should_ have been disintegrated,” said Aziraphale, frowning. “You could have escaped...”

“And get stuck dealing with your successor, who would have been overly ambitious, like all beginners? You want me to remind you how zealous _you_ were at the beginning, when you were trying to discorporate me every time our paths crossed? Thank you very much, but I am quite satisfied with our Arrangement.”

“In short, you protected your interests ...”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Crowley, relieved. Even if, on second thought, Aziraphale’s smile implied a quite unsettling _go-on-you-can’t-fool-me._

“And how will you explain this to your superiors?” asked the angel.

 “Explain what? These three can’t serve as witnesses. And if someone ever did look into the matter: they attacked an angel, they were killed by an angelic weapon. End of story. They will think twice before sending someone else. By the way, you haven’t lost your touch,” added Crowley admiringly, pointing to the remains of the first two assassins. “I must say I sometimes tend to forget the guardian of the eastern gate hides under the guise of a harmless bookseller.”

 “I guess the same went for them,” said Aziraphale distractedly, focused on healing his wounds.

 The lacerations were closing gradually as a soft golden light emanated from the angel, evidence of the divine power at work. Crowley stepped away to a cautious distance.

“Well, you’ll have to replace the carpet.” 

“Mmhmm. Could I take advantage of your kindne… er… would you mind making us some tea, while I finish this?”

 

A few minutes later, they faced each other across the small table in the kitchenette, two steaming cups in front of them. Aziraphale’s penetrating gaze looked directly into Crowley’s eyes, as much as the sunglasses allowed:

“Is there something you want to talk about?”

Crowley displayed his most impassive expression.

“Not really.”

As the answer didn’t seem to satisfy his counterpart, he continued, with the fast delivery and the reluctant tone he always used when forced to say little demonic things:

“Well, I'm sorry you got dragged into that.”

“It's not your fault,” said Aziraphale, reaching across the table to pat the back of Crowley’s hand. “I even have to admit I'm rather proud: if I affect your job performance, it means I’m doing mine properly.” The demon looked at their hands with an astonished air, before he hastily withdrew his to safety under the table. “What I mean is ... don’t you wonder how you were able to use my dagger without damage?”

“I have no idea... just lucky? Maybe it’s too old to hurt me? Somehow the dagger knew I was trying to defend you? Honestly, I don’t know and I don’t care. It worked, and now it’s over.”    

“This weapon was designed to disintegrate any demon which it touches, and, as you saw, it works perfectly well.”

“Apparently not.”

 _“Apparently_ ,” corrected Aziraphale, “something has sufficiently either altered or hidden your demonic nature enough to deceive the dagger.”

The angel obviously expected a question from his counterpart, but Crowley, unwilling to push the conversation further in this direction, merely indifferently drank his tea. Aziraphale sighed and hesitated, then said softly:

“I'm able to sense these kinds of things, you know. When you arrived, you felt...”

“When I arrived, I felt the immense annoyance of a guy obliged to get up in the middle of the night to come and save your ass. That’s all.”

Crowley’s cup hit the saucer with a loud _clink_.

“Oh, please. When you grabbed my weapon, it was out of...”

“Ssstupidity, as you said.”

Crowley pushed his chair back and stood up. Pushed to the limits by his attitude, Aziraphale couldn’t hold back a low blow:

“And since when exactly am I _your_ angel?”

Seeing Crowley’s cheeks flush, he regretted his words instantly. He didn’t even know demons could blush.

“Aziraphale, you’re fantasizing,” replied Crowley coldly. “You must rest; the fight must have really taxed you.”

“Crowley, I...”

But the front door had already slammed. Alone with his lukewarm tea, the angel stared into space and whispered:

“Aziraphale, you fool, you could hardly have handled this worse.”

 

* * *

 

[1] He claimed that his professional responsibility required him to regularly check the quality of products he’d helped create, but he himself had succumbed to the addictive nature of series for which he’d whispered the idea to producers for this very reason. Since the invention of television, humans spent more and more time vegetating in front of the tube and less time reading. And they became easily irritated at the idea of missing an episode of their favorite show. However, programs were still too tasteful. Not enough sex. Or humiliation. Crowley was working on a project to sequester and film 24/7 people chosen for their lack of culture, good taste, and especially, modesty. He was investigating the idea, but felt that the world was not yet ready.

[2] It was however a little early for this third possibility because, as everyone knows, this kind of thing has to happen between 4 and 5 a.m., early enough to mess up your night, but too late for you to fall asleep again.

[3] When would people – or demons - learn not to have an extended monologue instead of carrying out their plan? Doesn’t anyone watch TV?

[4] Here we see irrefutable proof of angelic optimism.

[5] That we could transcribe more or less as follows: 

“Just turn around and walk away. Don’t get involved!”

“If you hold the blade right, maybe you’ll have enough time to plunge it into his back before in turn being disintegrated.”

“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had and that’s saying something…”

“Oh, shut up!”

[6] If you ask Crowley, he’ll obviously say that demons do not yelp. So as not to embarrass him, Aziraphale will refrain from mentioning all the times he’s witnessed otherwise.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale spent the rest of the night re-reading an old Oscar Wilde edition. At least, he was _trying_ to read. When he realized he was spending more time thinking about what he should have said to Crowley instead of the contents of the volume in his lap, he sighed. Closing the book, he glanced out his shop window. It was morning.

Although he had never been to Crowley’s residence, he did have his address, in case of emergency. Taking the subway, in a half-hour he was standing in front of the demon’s door, knocking in vain. Across the hallway, a door cracked open, and an old lady peered out suspiciously at Aziraphale.

“If you’re looking for Mr. Crowley, he left this morning.”

“What do you mean, left?”

“He said he was going to live abroad for some time and that arrangements had been made for his apartment.”

“Excuse me, ma’am, but… did he tell you where he was going?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you how long he was going to be gone?”

“No.  Who are you, anyway?”

“Just a friend.”

“Hmpf. If you were really his friend, he would have told you he was leaving, right?”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right…” the angel said to himself as he turned forlornly down the hall.

 

~*~*@*~*~

 

Not until he was finally on the plane did Crowley relax. He had made arrangements for there to be an available seat on the first flight to the Democratic Republic of Congo[1]. The changing political climate seem to offer interesting prospects.

Knowing the angel, he would have probably already sought out Crowley to try to continue last night’s conversation. And _that_ was out of the question. This whole mess was caused by a few unguarded moments and misspoken words! _Don’t even try to make me explain, Aziraphale. Demons do_ not _say those kind of things. They’re not supposed to_ feel _this way, dammit! And thank you very much, but I want to stay a real, honest-to-Go… Sata… SOMEONE demon! Is that too much to ask?_

Oh, for a while now he had tried to justify to himself why he kept company with the angel (on his most honest days he might call it ‘friendship’). It was already embarrassing. And _it_ (he refused to call it that word even to himself) was potentially dangerous. 

Some time away would probably do him good. Undoubtedly, once he was far from Aziraphale, Crowley would recognize this nauseating sentimentality was merely an undesirable side effect caused by proximity to an angel. _Yeah._ He would laugh about this in a few years.

It really _was_ better this way for both of them. They were not wrong Downstairs: he _had_ softened. He would work extra hard to occupy his newly empty hours. And Hell would have no more reason to try to get rid of Aziraphale.

 

Crowley summoned the flight attendant and ordered a whiskey.

 

~*~*@*~*~

 

In Kinshasa, Crowley took a room at a hotel catering to Western business types, and immediately set to work.

The country, shortly to be known as Zaire, confirmed its corruptible potential. Due to its copper and cobalt mines, foreign money was streaming into the country, bring with it exploitation, nepotism, and political assassinations. Crowley worked in the background with both Western entrepreneurs and Congolese leaders. His contribution to the corruption of so many souls had earned him a commendation from his superiors.[2]

For eleven years he schemed relentlessly. On his rare days off, he got drunk[3].And when he got tired of being drunk, he went to bed. This never-ending routine warded off any thoughts of Aziraphale.

That’s what he told himself.

 

~*~*@*~*~

 

For his part, the angel had not been idle either. For the first few weeks, he’d truly expected Crowley to return, but then a young couple had moved into the demon’s apartment. Aziraphale realized his expectations were in vain. Fortunately, if one could call it that, the recent economic downturn was enough to keep him occupied. Austerity had hit England hard. Unemployment was increasing and labor strikes were common. Many families needed help and reassurance. He was also witness to, and a bit confused by, the sexual revolution.

Unlike Crowley, when Aziraphale was not working, he was sober. Without the demon to tempt him, he was content with a glass or two of wine at the end of a long day. He no longer went out to concerts or the theatre. And he no longer had to sacrifice a quiet evening of reading in favor of long philosophical discussions that had always seemed to end in a fit of giggles, no resolution, and several empty bottles of wine.

In short, without Crowley, Aziraphale was dying of boredom.

The problem is that when one is sober, he is clearly able to think. Aziraphale was not necessarily eager to dwell on the fact that, with Crowley gone, something in his life was lacking. After all, it wasn’t as if they spent a lot of time together. After the Arrangement, they’d decided to meet up every ten years to take stock and share notes, except in unusual circumstances. It was true that their meetings had become more frequent after Crowley’s long beauty nap of the nineteenth century, and especially after they’d both coincidentally settled in London.

One evening Aziraphale was struck with the realization that even during his hundreds of years alone, he had never _felt_ alone until the day that Crowley had left. He had certainly never thought of Crowley daily, as he now found himself doing.

It wasn’t just that he was bored. He felt strangely at loose ends. And he wasn’t sure what to do about that feeling. _An angel who misses a demon._ It was very odd indeed.

It was so peculiar he wished that he had someone with whom to discuss it. Perhaps another viewpoint would put things in perspective. But with whom?[4] Even his books seem to betray him; refusing to provide the answers he sought. Well, at least his religious collection was lacking. The secular works, however, abounded with emotions he found increasingly difficult to deny as his. _Human_ feelings. It was absurd, ridiculous, unbelievable, insane, and totally bizarre.[5]

~*~*@*~*~

 

Crowley was beginning to get tired of Africa. He was humming along to music and thinking about where to head next (South America, maybe?) when the cassette tape in his Jeep[6] was suddenly interrupted:

_CROWLEY?_

“Yessss?” he said, after sharply correcting the Jeep back onto the road.

_WE HAVE A MISSION FOR YOU._

“Go on.”

 _YOU MUST RETURN TO LONDON._ (His heart skipped a beat.[7]) _YOU’LL RESUME CONTACT WITH OUR NETWORK… HMM… YOU KNOW… SATANISTS._ (Crowley gave the cassette player a look of dismay.) _YOU MUST GIVE THEM THESE INSTRUCTIONS._ (They were instantly discharged into his brain. Damn, he hated that!) _MAKE SURE THEY FOLLOW THEM TO THE LETTER._ _WE WILL NEED THEM VERY SOON._

“For what purpose?”

_YOU WILL FIND OUT SOON ENOUGH, CROWLEY. YOU WILL PLAY AN IMPORTANT ROLE._

“Really? Uh… okay.”

_WE WILL CONTACT YOU WITH ADDITIONAL DETAILS. (PAUSE) CROWLEY?_

“Hmm?”

YOU ARE, OF COURSE, ALREADY ON YOUR WAY TO THE AIRPORT?

“Of course!” the demon answered hurriedly while making an abrupt U-turn in the Jeep.

_London._ His hands felt suddenly clammy as they grasped the steering wheel. Crowley knew he was not quite ready yet to return to England.

 

* * *

 

 

[1] An English businessman inexplicably found himself on a flight to Melbourne. Without luggage.

[2] In fact, the management in Hell was not always about punishment. They also practiced positive reinforcement.

[3] At first, he had tried to both work _and_ get drunk, but had unintentionally almost triggered a civil war. Although he had only hazy memories of this story, it had served as an important lesson.

[4] Aziraphale had considered the issue from several directions, but to talk about it with a representative from Above (‘Hello, Metatron, I need some advice. It’s for a friend, you understand, who thinks, perhaps, he has feelings for a demon.”) definitely seemed like a bad idea.

[5] He could spend another half-hour adding to this list of adjectives. A limited vocabulary is not one of his shortcomings.

[6] The Bentley was in storage in England. Crowley was not willing to risk driving it on these roads.

[7] Fortunately, as a demon, it did not matter.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Hello, Aziraphale?”

“Crowley! Where are you?”

“London.”

“Since when?”

“Two weeks.”

“Oh.”

“I need your help with something.”

“Of course; you can count on me. Are you in trouble?”

“We’ll _all_ be in trouble.”

“My, that sounds serious. St. James’s, in an hour?”

“Perfect.”

 

When Aziraphale arrived at their usual bench, the demon was already seated; hands in pockets, legs outstretched. His atypical punctuality in itself was already disturbing. He rose as the angel approached. Without a word Aziraphale enveloped Crowley in his arms and hugged him for a solid minute. Crowley’s back stiffened and his hands awkwardly hung by his sides. He cleared his throat.

“Um, hello. People are looking at us, you know.”

Aziraphale pulled away and stared at him intently.

“I missed you.”

“Obviously,” Crowley replied with a smirk, inwardly congratulating his cool and detached manner.

His sidekick seemed taken aback. After an uncomfortable moment of silence, Aziraphale pulled a bag of breadcrumbs from his raincoat pocket and started to toss them to the ducks.

“I imagine, that if you took the trouble to call me, something serious has happened.”

Crowley did not fail to note the unusual tone of bitterness in Aziraphale’s voice, but he wisely refrained from response. He stole a piece of bread from the bag and lazily tossed it at the head of a duck[1], before recounting the events of the previous evening; from the cemetery to the hospital near Oxford.

 

~*~*@*~*~

 

Aziraphale protested, obviously. Partly for form: he was an angel and could not disobey orders from Above without showing at least some reluctance. Partly because he was curious to see how Crowley would convince him.

It was a source of endless wonder to Aziraphale how Crowley always got what he wanted.[2] Oh sure, from the beginning of time the angel had observed how Crowley worked his wiles. He usually didn’t even have to use his demonic powers to influence people. In a wink, he was able to measure up the person in front of him and know which method was going to work. His words, his gestures, the subtlety of his smile, the inflection of his voice – each choice was an element in a work of art. Long ago, Aziraphale had tried to understand how he too, could fall into the trap, even though he was well aware of the machinations behind the scene. He had come to the conclusion that it was the imperious will of Crowley that ultimately decided the match. Whatever you wanted, he wanted _more_. He wanted as children want, overwhelming and absolute, without even considering that reality might not bend to his wishes. One’s own will could only obediently submit.

More than once, Aziraphale had wondered if the greed and impatience Crowley demonstrated were the result or the cause of his Fall. They had spent the same length of time on Earth, yet Crowley looked so _young_. The angel vaguely perceived that the relatively constant physical characteristics of their successive bodies were not only reflective of conscious and practical choice. Certainly, his face was reassuring to people, communicating an indefinable feeling of peace, while Crowley’s allowed him to easily seduce. But their apparent age (he, well into his forties, with little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes even when he wasn’t smiling; Crowley maybe early thirties with a smooth face and sharply-defined features) largely reflected their relative roles on Earth. Aziraphale’s was watching and caring; Crowley’s was desire and impetuosity.

So he had protested. But he was no fool; he knew his fate had been sealed when he’d answered without hesitation, _Count on me_.

 

~*~*@*~*~

 

 _Maybe I should have thought twice about this,_ reflected Aziraphale briefly as the surface of the air base began to tremble.

He had really believed they’d succeeded. Adam had set the stage. There was only the final blow to deliver. _Find your opponent’s weakness, then choose your words well._ One does not hang around with an expert in temptation for thousands of years without learning a thing or two.

“This Great Plan, this would be the _ineffable_ Plan, would it?”

Doubt. Doubt was the weakness to exploit. If he had doubted himself for eleven years, could the emissaries from Above and Below also not be immune to doubt?

Crowley had shot him a surprised and hopeful look, and then a smile like a mentor’s approval. And then he followed suit. Obviously.

Aziraphale marveled at the timing of their responses, as if they could read each other’s thoughts. It was like a script; too well-acted to miss its mark. And for a few moments, Aziraphale savored the heady pleasure of having imposed his will.

That is, until Satan himself decided to appear to set his son on the right path.[3]

Like all witnesses to the scene, the angel’s burning desire was to be somewhere else, preferably as far away as possible. But he recovered quickly. He was where he needed to be. He was partly responsible for what had happened today and, although it was a desperate attempt, he felt he owed it to the humans with which he had rubbed shoulders so long to try to save Earth. He owed it to Crowley, who loved this place more than he had ever loved Heaven or Hell. And he owed it to himself because, despite all the suffering and atrocities he witnessed among men, it was the Earth he now considered his home, and where he longed to return when visiting in Paradise.

The Earth and Crowley. Yes. They had to do this together. Aziraphale definitely chose not Heaven, not Hell, but the third camp. He was aware of the sacrifice he was asking of the demon when he put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder. But Aziraphale could not face this without Crowley by his side. 

 

~*~*@*~*~

 

When Crowley read the quiet determination in Aziraphale’s eyes, his fear was vanquished. The angel was counting on him and observed him with eyes full of confidence. It was not the false confidence raised by a game of deception. Aziraphale _knew_ him; knew him to the depths of his being and, despite this, had faith in him. For just a split second, Crowley had a vague reminiscence of a similar look, which had fully embraced him, in another life. But he had grown too accustomed to blocking out those memories to allow it to linger.

He would not allow his angel to face this losing battle alone. What did he have left to lose, except Aziraphale? Together. It was the only way to end it that made sense.

Practical considerations took the upper hand, and he began looking around for a weapon. _When will I stop throwing myself into this shit empty-handed?_[4] Groping under the seat of the Bentley, he grabbed a tire iron. It wouldn't be any good, but then, nothing would _._

Aziraphale picked up the sword War had brandished just a few short minutes before. When it flamed up, Crowley was struck by the expression of youthful rapture in his friend’s face. _So long ago…_

Aziraphale held out his hand. “I just wanted to say…” _So many things I cannot tell you here and now._ _I’ve not found a way to say it and so I kept it to myself, stupidly, as if we still had eternity before us as I knew we probably didn’t have. And I’m sorry, if only you knew how much, but even for that it’s too late._ He hoped that, under the insipidity of his statement, Crowley would be able to discern everything that could have been said, one day, if Aziraphale had only had a little more courage.

The demon took off this sunglasses and shook hands with Aziraphale, holding on a little longer than necessary: “I'll have known that, deep down inside, you were just enough of a bastard to be worth liking." And Crowley was certain that the angel had corrected the last word on his own.

Shadwell’s arrival had broken their locked gaze. Moving together as one, they advanced toward the steaming fissure. In concert, they spread their wings to the sky and exchanged a brief glance in which they could read, beyond fear, the joy of seeing each other in his true form one last time. Aziraphale engraved in his memory the almost painful grace of Crowley; the demon was amazed by the rediscovery of the intimidating presence of angel wings and flaming sword. Faced with Aziraphale’s resolute air, Crowley had to struggle against the ridiculous urge to kneel respectfully.

Suddenly, Adam changed the world and it was all over.

 

* * *

 

 

[1] It goes without saying that in eleven years, not one of these birds had regretted his absence.

[2] With the exception of the angel himself, but the irony of the situation had completely escaped Aziraphale.

[3] Or the wrong path, if one prefers.

[4] “In five minutes, when you are disintegrated,” replied the cynical (and highly developed) part of his brain.


	4. Chapter 4

Aziraphale leaned his head against the passenger window of the jeep as he and Crowley returned to London, and regretfully considered how resolutions born solely from the perspective of one’s imminent demise can very quickly vanish when the end no longer seems close.

He _wanted_ to say everything that he’d regretted not saying a few short hours ago, but he didn’t know where to start. _So many books I’ve read, and still I don’t have the right words! It’s pathetic!_

Maybe he could start with an apology. For his careless words at the bookshop that had caused Crowley to leave London. For the past eleven years, during which he had denied his feelings, and had not always succeeded in holding back petty innuendos, as if trying to punish his friend for being as cowardly as he.

He suddenly remembered the night he and Crowley had gone to the manor in which Adam had been born, looking for clues to locate the Antichrist. Mortified, Aziraphale recalled his particularly hurtful remark: _There seems to be this great sense of love. I can't put it any better than that. Especially not to you._ The unspoken addendum ‘ _since you claim not to feel such things’_ was left floating in the air, strong enough to almost be audible. The demon had turn pale and had started to say in a strained voice, _Do you mean like…_ And then, they had hit the girl on the bike.

What had Crowley been about to say? Aziraphale knew that rehashing that now was ridiculous, but still the question tortured him to the outskirts of London.

He ran a hand over his face.

“Can you drop me off at my place?”

They were the first words spoken since the two had gotten in the jeep.

Crowley started, as if torn from his own thoughts, and swore.

“I… I forgot to tell you something. The bookshop, uh… it… um… burned down.”

He cast a worried look at the angel, who had frozen, his face white. He added:

“I don’t know what happened. When I arrived, it was in flames. I’m sorry.”

For long minutes Aziraphale stared at the passing road in silence. Then he frowned.

“But… how did you find Anathema’s book? It was in the bookshop…”

“I thought you were in there. I went in to find you. I came across the book. It was the only thing I could save.”

The angel stared at him in amazement. Crowley cleared his throat.

“Do you want to go have a look, or would you prefer not to?”

“I think I need to see it for myself,” Aziraphale faintly replied.

 

~*~*@*~*~

 

Where the bookshop had stood just a few hours ago, there was now nothing but a dark void dimly outlined by the glow from the streetlights. Aziraphale approached the caution-taped cordon closely enough to realize there was nothing to see. The whole building had been reduced to ashes and the adjacent shops were evacuated, having been damaged as well.

Aziraphale resolutely lifted the plastic strip that symbolically prohibited passage, and surveyed the ruins. Crowley held back, not knowing what to say. Aziraphale finally stopped, with his back turned, near the place that would have been the counter. By the shaking of his shoulders, the demon could tell Aziraphale was crying. He drew closer.

The sight of a weeping angel would break anyone’s heart.[1] Offering comfort had never been Crowley’s strong point, but he awkwardly took his friend into his arms. He made a soothing “shhhhhh” sound, as there was nothing else to say.

The angel melted into his arms, crying upon his shoulder, soaking the suit jacket that still smelled of smoke. He finally looked up.

“You went inside…to find me.”

The blue eyes were filled with an intensity that frightened the demon, who stammered:

“It’s just… I needed your help. Hastur was after me. And you know I’m not afraid of fire.”

Aziraphale wiped his tears on his shirt cuff and asked in a soft voice:

“Don’t you think it’s time we stop this game?”

“What game, I’m not…”

“The one in which you say you feel nothing for me and I pretend to believe you.”

“I…”

Crowley was interrupted by the angel’s finger on his lips.

“Please don’t say anything at this time. God has great love, but he clearly doesn’t make his angels capable of handling cases in which they are personally involved. (Aziraphale seemed to briefly consider this hypothesis.) Or maybe it’s just me who’s rubbish. Anyway, even if I am, I learn from my mistakes. Do not say anything, please, but I beg you to listen because, if I don’t say it now, I’m not sure I’ll find the courage later. (He took a short breath before continuing in a choked voice.) I love you. I _love_ you, and that’s what I should have told you twenty-two years ago, and not a day has passed that I don’t regret it.”

The demon briefly closed his eyes and opened his mouth to answer. Aziraphale cut him short:

“And do not tell me that I can’t love you because you are a demon. I _know_ you. I’ve always known what you are. The Fall didn’t change you as much as you think… or as much as you want to pretend. It doesn’t matter anyway because, for a long time now, when I look at you, I don’t see a demon. I see a friend. My only friend. And more, but it took for you to go away for me to understand that.”

Again, Crowley’s response was cut short by a tirade at full speed:

“And I know what you are going to say. You’re going to argue that, in any case, angels are supposed to love everyone and, therefore, my love means nothing. Well, think again. My love for you is not like my love for everyone. It’s not supposed to be like this, I know. Maybe I’ve been on Earth for too long. Perhaps I shouldn’t, but I can’t believe it’s wrong because what I feel for you, _just_ you, Crowley, it’s so…”

The demon interrupted in the only way he could: by kissing the angel. It was brief and more awkward than anything else, because Aziraphale was not expecting it and was dumbfounded. But the kiss had the merit of ending Aziraphale’s speech before he became totally hysterical.[2]

“Angel?” asked Crowley before sliding his sunglasses into his jacket pocket.

“What?” replied Aziraphale distractedly.

“Could you be quiet for a moment?”

“Yes… I think… I can do that,” he nodded in a small voice.

“Perfect.”

This time, Crowley took the time to do it right.

When their lips parted, Aziraphale was smiling. His eyes remained closed for a few seconds, then opened with a slightly confused expression that worried Crowley:

“What’s the matter? Wasn’t it…”

“Do not make that face. It was perfect. As far as I can judge. It’s just… it’s a very human way to express feelings.”

It was the demon’s turn to look puzzled.

“How would you…”

Aziraphale asked in a soft voice:

“Do you not remember?”

The confused look in the demon’s eyes answered his question.

So, Aziraphale released his aura. In human form, they had gotten into the subconscious habit of constraining it except when they needed to exert influence on a mortal. Some rare humans were sufficiently perceptive enough to detect auras, and it was better to not unnecessarily attract their attention by revealing anything beyond that of a normal individual. Even contained, their angel and demon auras were supposed to repel each other, but the two had been in proximity long enough for this effect to fade and eventually disappear altogether. However, Aziraphale was now sending an extreme concentration of love to the demon. He was completely immersed in it, and panic seized him.

Aziraphale’s look invited him to do the same. Crowley protested with difficulty, struggling against the choking sensation:

“I can’t do it.”

“Yes, you can. You’ve already done it. That’s how I knew.”

“It wasn’t voluntary! I don’t know _how_ to do it!”

The angel took his hands.

“Trust me. Look at me. Let it flow.”

In comparison, confessing his feelings aloud would have seemed ridiculously easy for Crowley. But Aziraphale was right: today was the day. It could hardly get worse for a demon, as he had played a role in preventing the Apocalypse and opposing his superiors. Was he not already condemned? He might as well fully deserve the punishment that would inevitably follow.

Aziraphale’s eyes were full of love and Crowley focused on them to control the impulse to run away that had permeated his entire being. There was, deep inside him, something that was waiting to be released, which pushed to escape the prison in which it had been carefully and methodically confined. So Crowley opened the locks one by one. The feeling spread inside him and became almost palpable, and he realized spontaneously, or rather he remembered with a happy surprise, how to respond to the similar emotion directed toward him. When touched by the angel’s aura, his own demonic essence frantically struggled. Crowley fought against an irrepressible desire to lock all this love away again to keep it safe; instinctively sensing that its identity, its very survival could be endangered. But it was already too late: both auras recognized each other and, drunk with joy and sweeping everything before them, they rushed to join together.

The shock wave was unimaginable. For the second time that day, their wings unfurled, enveloped in a golden, glorious light. If a human had witnessed the scene, his mind would probably not have escaped unscathed. Fortunately, the street was deserted. But at that moment, London experienced a massive wave of mystical ecstasies. Scientists were later able to pinpoint the epicenter in Soho, but had no explanations.

After what could have well been just a second or several hours, the wave receded, leaving them breathless and clinging to one another, forehead against forehead, torn between tears and inextinguishable laughter.

When they were sufficiently back in control, they adjusted their physical appearances, but not without difficulty, as exhaustion threatened their human forms. With an automatic gesture, the demon hid his reptilian eyes behind dark glasses; driven by habit, the angel straightened his clothes without thinking.

Supporting one another to stay upright, they returned to the car. They did not say a word, for is it still necessary to speak when one is unconditionally released, and the other has welcomed, accepted, loved every bit of his being?

Nothing was said, but their actions spoke louder than any words they could utter.

 

* * *

 

 

[1] That is, if one had a heart, which excludes any normal demon. This, Crowley was not.

[2] Objectively, a slap would have fit the bill but, in context, Crowley had not thought it to be the most appropriate reaction.

 


End file.
